


brute

by OneWhoTurns



Series: first impressions [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Assassin's Creed: Syndicate, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Trapped In A Closet, flirtation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-09-19 12:23:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17001594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneWhoTurns/pseuds/OneWhoTurns
Summary: You’d never found violence particularly attractive. But you had to admit… it looked good onhim.  [ft fight club!Jacob]





	1. brute

**Author's Note:**

> My first time writing second-person or reader-insert fic, and my first time writing for this fandom at all. If you follow me on Tumblr or Dreamwidth you've already seen this, but I've decided it stands on it's own for now. I will probably write a follow up, but it works okay alone for now.

You understood the appeal, of course. This day and age? With gangs constantly battling for territory, fights breaking out all over the city, and a frankly _alarming_ amount of dead bodies being stumbled over in the streets? It was no wonder you’d been advised by more than one friend to find some strapping young lad to protect you. You weren’t particularly fond of the implication that you couldn’t protect yourself, but then again, your usual tactic was to _run_ and/or _hide_ and pray to god that no one found you interesting enough to target.

In the interest of self preservation, your wardrobe had been nearly halved, stowing away anything in gang colours with the hope that one day you could wear them again (there was that lovely muted green dress that you’d saved up for and now this new gang had come along and spoiled the colour). (And it wasn’t like your wardrobe had been all that large to begin with.)

Still, every time a friend pointed out the breadth of a man’s chest, or a particularly impressive bruise, with the reasoning that such things meant he could take care of himself - and, by extension, any young lady he was escorting - you could only think of back-alley muggings and taproom brawls and, really, would you want to be with a man getting himself into those situations to begin with? If he started a drunken fight because some fellow at a pub looked at him the wrong way, who was to say he wouldn’t do the same to his lady? While you hadn’t known many who’d been put in that uncomfortable situation, you had known some, and the thought of being stuck in such an arrangement was chilling.

Then again, you’d be lying if you said you’d never once admired the strong corded musculature of the boys unloading freight by the docks, or other such industrious types. Truth be told, you _were_ a bit jealous of Emma and her betrothed - a man who could most fittingly be described as a gentle giant. While perfectly harmless (his bulk being mainly attributed to a family farm in his youth and then years of manual labour once moved to the city), he struck an imposing enough figure that you’d begun to think Emma simple when she was puzzled by your complaints over how uneasy the territory wars made you feel. But, of course, arm in arm with William she could walk down the street and Blighters and Rooks alike avoided unnecessary confrontation. You were not so lucky. So your strategy held: keep your head down, don’t get involved; anonymity was the safest course of action.

Of course, that didn’t make you meek. A calculated defence was still _calculated_ , after all, and the front was shrugged easily on and off as you went about your life. A friend would receive a teasing jab in the ribs or a bawdy comment, your laugh perhaps a bit too loud, yet seeing the telltale red or green colours your eyes went to the ground, shoulders tense and both face and posture bland as all hell. And if that front was occasionally difficult to hold? - whether from fear or simply annoyance - well, you did your best. Considering the worse you’d got had been a bit of jeering from a group of drunken Blighters and a few finger-shaped bruises on a forearm, you felt confident in your strategy.

The worst part of it all, in your opinion (and perhaps it was a selfish view of things), was that you thought things would change when you’d moved up in the world. But timing as it was, even as you snagged yourself better employment, a better living situation, a way out of the grittier parts of London, the Clinkers had become the Rooks and the gang wars began again. And now something was strolling through London, leaving death in its wake.

\--

Earlier in the day your lip had curled in distaste, stomach rolling at the sight of a red-clad corpse splayed on the sidewalk. A touch of guilt had coloured your conscience as the cynical thought that - well, at least it was mostly Blighters being found dead in the streets - flitted through your mind. (After all, the blood was far less jarring when it melded with the gang’s colours. Bloodied Rooks somehow always looked worse for wear.) A soft sigh had bypassed closed lips as you let your eyes glaze over, legs following the now-familiar path back to your employers’ residence as you pointedly avoided thinking about any and all gangs. It wasn’t like there was much you could do about it, after all, so you may as well accept it and carry on. At least the City of London was far better than Southwark. It was even a pleasant enough experience, the occasional errand on these rare sunny days.

Apart from, you know, the corpses.

So you’d returned to the household.

You’d snagged a choice job, thanks to an awful lot of hard work, careful loitering, and months of impeccable attention to detail. Serving as a parlour-maid for the middle class, as it turned out, was ideal for you. Or perhaps it was simply your employer, or at least his wife, who seemed particularly fond of you. Fond enough to give you a position at least, in the small cadre of household servants, despite lacking much in the way of qualifications. And far too patient with you, truth be told. Regardless, you had a position now, never lacking a roof over your head or food on your table, and even got Sundays off. You felt astonishingly lucky. You would never want to compromise such a perfect situation.

Which was why you hesitated when entering your lady’s chambers only to be greeted by a broad back knelt before the locked trunk at the foot of her bed. Your first thought - laden with curses - was quickly dismissed. A quick flick of eyes over the figure revealed no colours or insignia for the gangs, which might be considered a small relief apart from the minor detail that this was still, ostensibly, a _thief_. In the rooms _you_ were supposed to be in charge of, at least part of the time. And as lovely as your mistress was, you didn’t wish to put her in such a position that might call her trust in you into question. So it may be best to simply cry out for help, perhaps another servant could at least bear witness to clear your name if need be. But also: _thief_. _Criminal_. Potentially the sort to carry a weapon. If you _did_ cry out, who’s to say your neck wouldn’t be on the line? Perhaps the best course of action would be to turn right back around and go report the theft to the housekeeper, she’d know what to do.

Right. So… careful extraction then.

You managed a single quiet step backwards before the floorboards beneath you creaked far louder than such sturdy things should. You froze, breath caught in your throat, an instantaneous debate - if you should run (loud, but quick) or try to continue slowly inching away - pinged back and forth in your head. Before you’d decided which to follow, the thief was standing, turning to face you.

For all his face was mostly shadowed by the heavy hood he wore, your eyes immediately swept the rest of his figure, seeking gang colours again, if only out of instinct. Red? Red on his waistband, at least. And a red-

“Are you wearing a _cravat_?” The words slipped from your lips without thinking, utterly bewildered. If it was, it couldn’t have been tied correctly.

...Shit.

_Shit!_

Your mouth snapped shut in the same instant as you realised you’d been gaping at him in incredulous confusion, and you quickly turned your eyes to the ground, slipping on the bland, meek little shell that was your shield, drawing into yourself and somehow shrinking your very presence. But not before you noticed the amused twitch of his lips.

Dear god, what had you been thinking? (Of course, that was obvious: an awful lot of nothing useful.) But really; one did not expect a thief in a brocade waistcoat and silken cravat (or was it a necktie?). It had blindsided you, truly. Even now you weren’t quite sure how you _should_ be reacting, though you were quite aware that this certainly wasn’t it.

There was a moment of pause, your eyes fixed on the ground, too tense to blink, your flight instincts gradually overpowering your freeze instincts. When he moved to step toward you you bolted, running for the stairs.

When you returned a few minutes later, housekeeper in tow, the room was empty, the trunk still locked, and the window conspicuously open.

\--

It got more absurd. Two days later, having been given the night off, you were on your way to a pub on the north end of Southwark to meet your friend and her fiance. Crossing the Thames would’ve been a bit easier and a bit faster if you’d gone for the omnibus, but penny pinching had become a habit and it wasn’t _too_ far a walk. You certainly began to regret it when you heard sheer pandemonium at your back. Gun shots, carriage slamming against carriage, and the sound of terrified horses and cursing immediately made you push even closer to the edge of the bridge, only to watch them come barrelling down the thoroughfare.

Even in the dimming light you recognised his clothes. It was a distinctive look; the quilted leather collar on the duster, the fine waistcoat, the _is-it-a-failed-cravat-or-a-rakishly-casual-necktie_. He came and passed in moments, but you’d been struck by the absolutely puzzling addition of a top hat. Even more puzzling was the animosity of the two separate vehicles of Blighters on his tail, guns at the ready even as the thief swerved recklessly between carriages. Given the red band under his belt and the red ringing his hat you’d have assumed him to be on their side - or perhaps tangentially so, given the minimal flagging of colours. But you could only assume, what with the Blighters’ fury and the thief’s bark of laughter, that they were not, in fact, allies of any sort.

You were thoroughly rattled for a moment, your heart pounding loud in your throat as you thanked god for not being trampled. But what else was there to do, really, besides continue? It gave you something to share with your friends, at least: _I was almost killed by a madman being chased by armed thugs_. What a tale.

\--

Somehow, by the time you’d reached the Duke of York and had been greeted by warm smiles and a fresh pint, the story had gone from bizarre to entertainingly absurd.

You let out a not-so-ladylike snort at Emma’s flippant suggestion that the only solution here was to become a vigilante and track down the newly dubbed ‘gentleman thief’ yourself. “If this is your attempt at matchmaking, I cannot fathom what you must think of my prospects,” you teased, grinning.

“Well, if he’s so good as a thief he’d at least provide for you,” she grinned right back. “And think of it this way: with Blighters on his tail, you’d make out like a bandit as his new widow. Could buy yourself your own hovel and everything.”

At that you had to laugh.

“Nah, she’s too good for that now,” William’s tone was warm, merely teasing. “Can barely make it to Southwark for a pint without swooning over the dangerous streets.”

“Oh? Are you slumming it with us tonight, then?”

You rolled your eyes in response. “If I were, I’d be doing a poor job of it. This place is practically _clean_ for Christ’s sake. And none of that enticing rank of stale sweat and piss in the air. Where are the drunken brawls and the gang toughs? I simply am not scandalised nearly enough.”

Emma shoved you hard enough to threaten your beer to spill, and you widened your eyes at her accusingly, quickly wiping away the droplet that had come perilously close to soiling your skirt, and glaring at the girl even as you tried not to laugh.

It was a few pints later that the subject was broached again.

“If you _really_ want to be scandalised…”

\--

And that was how you ended up, about 75% willing and 80% tipsy, giggling arm in arm with Emma as the three of you made your way to the foundry. You held her arm a bit too tight, eyes a bit too wide, skin jittering as alcohol twisted your fear to adrenaline. William knew a fellow, supposedly, who fought regularly in the ring at this particular fight club, and he promised it was a sight to behold. He’d laughed, claiming your eyes had gone the size of saucers upon hearing of the primary draw of such events: last man standing.

It was grotesque in a sort of fascinating way, where you didn’t want to watch and yet you couldn’t look away. It was disgusting, and so often brutish, but god there was something exhilarating about it.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been there before you’d sobered up just enough to remember your curfew. Just as you asked William for the time, the bookie with the ridiculous hat (and jacket, and trousers) announced a new challenger.

William shook his head, brushing off your request. “Give it a minute. I saw this one at a club down Lambeth way, he’s brilliant.”

Pursing your lips in annoyance, you tried again. “That’s lovely and all, but this fight could take ages and I need the work.”

Will didn’t even look at you, eyes focused on the challenger, letting out a slight snort of laughter. “Nah, this’ll be quick,” he assured. And with a pat to your back he extricated himself and headed for the bookie, quick to place bets before the fight began.

“Rude.” You observed to Emma, who gave you a quick squeeze around the shoulders.

“Have some faith, I’m sure you’ll be back in no time. I’ll pay the fare if you really need it.”

You hadn’t realised just how correct she’d be.

At first glance, the challenger seemed a decent prospect, but nothing special. Average height - perhaps shorter than most of his opponents - broad-chested and stocky, though it was quickly apparent that that ‘stock’ consisted primarily of highly responsive musculature. The first round and he’d taken down his three opponents in mere moments.

“...Oh.” There wasn’t much else for you to say about that. _Damn_.

A few minutes between rounds, and you spent the time studying him. He looked familiar, though your experience with shirtless men was few and far between, and - god - well, he had _tattoos_ , and those were distracting as well. Had you met anyone when living in Southwark that had matched his description? It took a moment to drag your eyes from his bare chest and back to his face, which you examined carefully.

If you were the sort to find dangerous men attractive -- and you weren’t, of course not, because danger was _danger_ , whatever it might be dressed as -- you might consider the scar cutting through his brow to be… well, _dashing_ didn’t seem quite right. In combination with the similar scar on his (surprisingly well-groomed) jaw, you settled on the descriptor of _roguish_. You couldn’t quite place the colour of his eyes from where you stood amongst the crowd, but that wolfish grin was eerily familiar as well. Gaze flicking down once more you considered the tattoos again. A sort of stylised cross, not a symbol you recognised, and a swooping bird. Beside the bird hung what from here looked like a coin on a thin cord of leather, like a necklace. That too prickled at your memory, like you should recognise it. It was almost irritating.

He glanced down at his hands, flexing them casually, mouth a cocky smirk as his next set of opponents assembled, ready to jump into the ring. He didn’t even turn as the first approached him from behind, not at first, but when he did it was a flash, ducking under the man’s swinging arm and slamming a fist straight up into his jaw. You could only stare in amazement, along with the rest of the crowd, as the first opponent dropped like a sack of potatoes. _Brutal_.

You watched the muscles of his back tense and flex as he examined his wrapped palms once more, and you could only imagine the look on his face as he spoke, voice a fine-edged casual drawl: “Come now lads, don’t be skittish.”

He was baiting them - though for god’s sake _why_ he was inviting four men to attack him all at once you couldn’t reason. Whatever his intention was, it seemed to work. Soon he was surrounded, an elastic weaving of bodies and fists, dodging and striking and-- You winced at the audible crack as one of the men’s arms folded in a manner it _really_ shouldn’t. Still, the tattooed challenger moved with a savage sort of grace, like some kind of devastating dance, taking down one opponent after another, moving far faster than you would have presumed possible.

You’d never found violence particularly attractive. But you had to admit… it looked good on _him_.

It wasn’t until the third round that a single punch connected with him. A fraction of an instant after taking a blow to the shoulder he had already ducked back to circle around the fellow who’d thrown the punch, hooting his approval. “Well done, sir! First touch of the night - you should be proud!”

With a growl the fellow charged again, but he was met with a dodge, a strike, and one arm was pivoted at such an angle as to send the man barrelling toward the edge of the ring. You took a reactionary step back as he slammed into the boards, brows lifted in astonishment, briefly wondering if the fencing would hold.

Emma gripped your sleeve, squealing in that way young women do when faced with sensationalism. You couldn’t look away, watching as the now-defending challenger stepped to his groaning opponent. His lips twitched into that small smirk, somewhere between amusement and satisfaction, that you now recognised. That smirk, that coin - hell, how hadn’t you recognised the waistband before now?

When he spoke it was too playful to be deemed sneering, though the casual murmur still would never qualify as sincere. He gripped the man’s shirt with both hands, watching his fingers in the fabric rather than addressing the man himself, amused as he shook his head. “...So proud.” He punctuated the statement by pulling the dazed man to him, butting him in the head before drawing him back and raising his knee, using a hand on the back of the man’s head to slam him face-first into it. Even if the opponent hadn’t passed out he certainly didn’t plan to keep fighting, body tumbling to the ground as the tattooed challenger rolled his shoulders back.

You finally got a look at his eyes. Brown, or maybe hazel, clouded by a haze of adrenaline but glinting hungrily nonetheless. He wasn’t looking at you, merely half-focused beyond the edge of the ring where you happened to be standing. It made the hair at the back of your neck stand on end. Your own eyes widened, spotting the two men who had edged their way closer, looking livid despite - or maybe because of - the injuries they’d already received. Your mouth opened, reflexively prepared to call out a warning (useless as it was), and you saw the second his eyes snapped to your face, determined the cause of your expression, and that wolfish spark came back to his grin as he turned and-- 1, 2-- hook- jab- pivot and strike and both men were down for the count.

“You promised a _challenge_ , Topping!” He jeered, hands outstretched and gesturing to six fallen opponents.

The bets, apparently were gradually tilting toward his favour, though the next round of opponents looked particularly intimidating. From what you could gather, the rounds had some unspoken system based on previous performance of some sort, some way of keeping the best fighters fresh for the last bouts, and the hulking men that now grunted and spat looked unambiguously imposing in comparison to the smaller but more nimble survivor of the first few rounds.

 _This_ time, he wasn’t quite so lucky. The first few swings were dodged easily, countered, with a propensity for head-butting ( _hard-headed, of course he is_ ), but then a solid punch to the cheek snapped his head to the side. You had to admit, while you’d felt a bit bad for the opponents in the first round or two, you found yourself rooting for the challenger this round, perhaps only in the face of such massive opponents. You hissed in sympathy along with several other spectators.

He wasn’t even fazed. It was almost off-putting, the cocky grin tinged with blood. His voice had dropped from a loud boasting jeer to something quieter, more menacing, on the malicious side of playful. “Now that’s more like it.”

If you thought he’d been brutal before, you must have been mistaken. He’d been _toying with them_ before, that was clear to see now, treating the fight like a game. But a switch had just been flipped. You felt the colour draining from your face with each subsequent thud and crack and snap, watching blood trickle from wounds you hadn’t thought possible from bare hands. A few more hits connected with him as well, though they were glancing, redirected before they could do any severe damage. There was no way this man was an amateur. Surely he was trained. He had to be, to be that… _efficient_.

You found yourself almost as irritated as you were impressed. These men had jobs, had work they needed to do, maybe even families to support, and he very well could be crippling them for life. It wasn’t competition, it was _condemnation_. Hiding your disapproval behind guarded eyes, you patted Emma’s shoulder, murmuring in her ear. “That’s him.”

“Who?” Her eyes were wide, a flush brought to her cheeks at the exhilaration of the fight.

“The thief. The madman in the carriage.”

Her eyebrows shot up, blinking in surprise before glancing back to the man in the ring, his opponents now all down for the count, his knuckles and face both bloodied for his effort along with a bleeding scratch across his chest, lifting a fist to strike at the air and enjoying the cheers of the crowd perhaps a bit too much. “The _gentleman_ thief?” She sounded incredulous.

Your tone was wry as you took him in again, focusing on those familiar features. “Yes, well… I may have been mistaken about that,” you observed drily. He was no gentleman. That was becoming plain to see.

Emma snorted. “Apparently.” She’d turned to look as well, and you could swear you spotted the moment a horrible idea came into her mind, the way her eyes flashed in the fiery glow of the foundry.

Why was she smiling? “He’s mad.” You weren’t sure why, but you felt the need to clarify that point to your friend. “Stark raving. As in ‘Will saw him in Lambeth ‘cos he’d escaped the asylum’ mad.”

“Hm.” There was no positive outcome from a thoughtful response like that. You could sense the gears turning in her meddling head as she murmured, distantly, “Maybe.” Christ, that smile meant nothing good.

You thought to warn her off whatever she was planning, or perhaps poke about with questions until you could determine what exactly it was, but it seemed that the fights were over for the night, the night’s star challenger having been deemed the new champion, and your plans were interrupted as other spectators filed past. William had gone to the bookie seemingly ages ago and hadn’t yet returned. You thought you spotted his head in the crowd of people seeking their payouts. ...This would take a while. You sighed, crossing your arms over your chest and leaning back against the edge of the ring so you could face Emma.

“What’s the look for?” Your eyes had narrowed, tone suspicious as you focused your undivided attention on your friend who now shifted foot to foot, avoiding your gaze remarkably casually.

“What look?” Her tone belonged in a charming Sunday stroll in the park, not on the grimy floor of a foundry-turned-fight-club.

You raised an incredulous eyebrow. “ _That_ look. With the eyes and the lips and the ‘ _who, me?_ ’” you mocked.

She gestured to herself with wide eyes, pouting, and you could hear her _who, me?_ ringing clearly in your head.

You scoffed a laugh. “Right. Of course. Play innocent, then. I’ll find out soon enough, I’m sure.”

Emma batted her eyelashes, and you saw her gaze flick sideways for a moment before she glanced more pointedly toward the crowd around this so-called Topping’s distinctive hat. Garish man. “Wait here a moment, will you? I’ll check on William.”

You frowned. She was at it again, with this naive idea that her fiance just radiated some kind of protective aura. But she’d gone before you had the chance to lecture her on the importance of not leaving a lady _alone_ , particularly in a place like _this_. You scowled at her back.

The sound of wood scraping against stone caught your attention, and you turned back to the ring only to find the night’s champion propping a stool beside the fence not six paces away. You shifted, uneasily, and finally settled on drawing back from the boards, angling yourself to keep both the fighter and the crowd around the bookie in your line of sight. You’d rather not have your back to someone like him.

Unfortunately, your movement away only seemed to catch his attention. You were surprised when instead of making a comment he merely caught your eye, nodded respectfully, and returned to his own activities. Which, apparently, was gulping down a full bottle of what you _hoped_ was water, because if it was gin he must have a stomach of _steel_.

His hair was wet with sweat - along with the rest of him, though you tried not to notice - and skin reddened in patches where you suspected there would be bruises in the next few hours. He hadn’t come out entirely unscathed. Liquid spilled from over-eager lips, and you blamed that last pint for the way your eyes followed it’s path down his neck until it mixed with the blood from the scratch on his chest. You watched the pull and strain of muscles under skin as he set aside the bottle, unwrapping first one hand and then the other, revealing skinned knuckles and calloused palms. Reaching out of sight, you heard the quiet hollow pop of a stopper being released, and when his hands came back into view he was pouring an amber liquid over one of them. He’d just switched hands, as if to repeat the motion, when he paused.

Curious as to what could have made him stop, you tried to keep your glance around the area subtle, but couldn’t find anything particularly of note. Finally looking back to the man, you realised with a start that he was staring at _you_. Smiling. Rather cheekily, if you judged it correctly.

“I’m flattered, madam, truly.”

Yes, cheeky seemed the right word for it.

You felt your own cheeks heating, and realised what you must’ve looked like, watching this bare-chested man so openly. Quickly your eyes were on the ground again, a bit irritated to be stuck doing your little display of meekness, in all honesty; even _you_ had thought going out with William would have made the tactic unnecessary, but alas. Shoulders rolled forward, head down, hands slipped from their confrontational stance to clasp mildly before you. You trained your face blank and vacant, shifting to turn even further from the man, though keeping him enough in your periphery to be aware of any trouble from his direction.

You saw forearms draping over the boards as the man turned to face you fully, leaning forward onto his elbows. You didn’t want to look high enough to see his face. Avoid eye contact, avoid trouble.

He let out a low whistle. “Impressive.” The word was said so casually it was hard to interpret his intention. And you didn’t intend to seek it out. Hands tapped absently against the boards, drumming out an inconsistent pattern as he waited for some kind of response. Then they paused once more. “Have we met?”

You couldn’t help it -- you glanced over, slightly irritated at his persistence, just to read his expression before your eyes flicked back to the floor. He was watching you, eyes glinting in a manner far sharper than the genial quirk of his lips. Hesitating for only a moment, you shook your head. The silent, bland girl, eyes on the floor. Maybe he’d get bored and leave you alone.

“You’re sure?”

There was something in the question -- amusement, though you weren’t sure if he was making any attempt to hide that.

After another pause, you nodded.

“Really?” You saw him shift in the corner of your eye, straightening, though he still rested his arms against the side of the ring. His tone was almost theatrically casual. “Because I could’ve sworn you insulted my impeccable fashion sense.”

You felt the pink rushing up your neck as you flicked your eyes to him again, unable to stop your lips from their slight purse of irritation before your eyes were on the ground again, blanking out your expression once more. “I think you may have mistaken me for someone else, sir.” Your words were mumbled but inside you were cursing. The smugness practically rolled off of him in waves. He had you pegged.

“You are _very_ good at that,” he observed again, conversationally. “Tell me: do all the boys get this treatment, or am I special?”

You tried to swallow your incredulous snort, and it came out as a soft cough. You almost wanted to tell him the truth, just to knock him down a notch. Cautiously, you looked up only to find a delighted grin on his face. He so obviously wished you to say yes.

“Please tell me I’m special.”

Your lips did twitch at that, turning ever so slightly toward him, a bit smug at your own spot-on reading of the man. But damn it if his eagerness wasn’t a bit endearing. He was a charmer, wasn’t he?

He’d returned to cleaning his wounds once you finally gave him the attention he so obviously craved. Still, even as he swabbed the broken skin of his hands and the cut on his chest (and that balm was assuredly medicated and not the sort of thing any old street thug would keep on their person -- who _was_ this man?), he kept glancing back to you, apparently awaiting an answer. Despite your better judgment, you had to pinch your lips between teeth to keep from smirking right back.

You wondered just how much of your behaviour you could blame on the alcohol as you realised you’d taken a few small steps in his direction. “You…” You glanced away, sure your bemusement must show in your face but not sure how exactly to respond to the question.

“Jacob.” He held out a hand, still shiny with whatever greasy ointment he’d been using to dress his wounds. “Frye.”

Turning your eyes back to him, there was no attempt made to hide your scepticism, an eyebrow raised incredulously at the offered hand.

At first surprised, after glancing at his own hand he seemed to concede that it wasn’t exactly the most appealing thing to touch at the moment. He nodded, an air of ‘can’t blame a lad for trying’ in his small smile.

_Please tell me I’m special._

“You’re… _something_ , Mister Frye,” you finally capitulated.

Admittedly, he still managed to be quite handsome despite the marks of his fight as he grinned at you. “I’m taking that as a compliment.”

You huffed a small laugh, glancing back to the diminishing crowd by the exit. Emma was watching, looking far too self-satisfied. Eyes narrowing at her bright smile, your words came out wry, though lacking any malice. “It wasn’t meant as one.”

Hearing a click of his tongue you looked back again only to find a mockery of hurt on his features, though not coming even close to those laughing eyes. “You wound me, madam.”

“Miss,” you corrected him automatically, the word a half-considered murmur. Upon realisation of the implication, you cleared your throat, immediately turning back to the foundry’s entrance as his brows lifted and lips curved into a smirk, ignoring - or trying to ignore - the heat on your skin.

“Miss…?”

But you were already walking toward the two you’d come with, feeling a small hint of pointed satisfaction as you called over your shoulder; “Congratulations on your win, Mister Frye.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really curious to get opinions on this fic, since I've never done it before and it hasn't gotten a ton of traction on my blog/s. There's so much good Jacob/Reader fic out there I was just inspired. XD 
> 
> And no, of course I don't spend time just going to fight clubs to admire those combat animations, of course not, pfft why would you think such a thing. 
> 
> And also [here's some beautiful art](http://kingsdarga.tumblr.com/post/137924103305/ah-yes-jacob-frye-master-assassin-expert-of) I definitely didn't draw that is highly inspiring.
> 
> \---  
> Additional note, 1/1/2019: I've written a Jacob's POV version of this, mostly cause I wanted to explore a more interesting interpretation of the main character's ability. That is written in third person with a more fully described OC instead of reader insert. I've put them in the same series, but understand the main character is no longer just a reader insert for that companion fic.


	2. notorious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written considering the alternative POV presented in _meek_ (click that li'l "next work" button above to go read it).

“Not saying you want trouble, are you?”

You kept your eyes on the ground, slowing your pace. They were only a bit further up the way, and you didn’t dare look to see just who it was. Small posture, meek affect, you blended in to the background, shifting further and further right until you’d ducked into an entryway of a shop, as though reading the bills posted in the windows. You could still hear the Blighters, the soft repetitive noise of hands pushing their victim back and forth, the way you’d seen them do before.

“Look here, I have customers that-”

“Shut it.” The demand went hand in hand with a thick thudding slap of skin on skin, a cry of pain. “Thought we made it clear that you’d be going through the Blighters from now on. You want your shipments coming and going safe and sound like, you hire _us_.”

The man’s voice was hissed, but apparently more from anger than pain. “Your prices are _exorbitant_. You know what that means? It means you charge _too damn much_ -” His voice was cut off by a thump and sudden whimper.

“You want your goods to stay good?”

“You’re mad.” He was wheezing, but clearly hadn’t given up. “The whole bloody lot of you.”

Breath was frozen in your chest as you heard a new voice speak up, and you pressed yourself as far into the little alcove as you could, damning your stupid skirts, trying to remember just how many Blighters had been ahead of you. Three? Four? If you turned to leave now, there was no way they wouldn’t see you. Hopefully they’d be heading away the opposite direction.

“You know why they call her Bloody Nora?” You did.

Someone spat, and based on the sudden noise of blades being drawn, you assumed it was the merchant. His choked and muffled wail of pain seemed to support that theory as well.

“This is a warning. Next time, it will be two. Then three. Tell me: would you prefer to start with them all on the left, or alternate hands?”

Quick wet gasps hissed through clenched teeth, and you were fairly sure you knew precisely what had happened. Your pulse hammered high and tight in your throat, trying not to picture the assuredly gruesome mess that would be the man’s left hand. Everything had faded to a muted wash of colour as you focused on staying small, quiet, and still. And conscious. That would be ideal. _Keep breathing. Don’t faint._

In an instant there was a _shing_ of metal on metal, followed by a wet gurgle. A cry of surprise from someone other than the Blighters’ victim. You found yourself resting a hand against the wall behind you, trying to stay on your feet. You’d never been this close to such a skirmish, not something so lethal.

“What-”

Thuds and cracks and the briefest noises of struggle, all culminated in at least one body falling to the ground. You doubted a single Blighter remained conscious -- or even breathing.

“Thank- ...thank you.”

There was a piercing whistle and you quickly turned your face further from the noise to peer through the closed shop window as the clatter of hooves filled the street behind you, obscuring the words spoken in a low murmur from where the merchant had voiced his thanks. A few more noises you could reasonably interpret as a man with nine fingers entering a hastily-called carriage, and that very same carriage being driven away posthaste, and then all seemed to have settled.

Excepting not two minutes later when a lady’s shriek pierced the air.

Your eyes fluttered closed with frustration as you once more steeled yourself to leave your hiding place. You’d _finally_ gotten your bearings, and now there was the (disconcertingly) usual hubub about the brand new corpses in the street.

Christ, how was this the _usual_ now?

Chewing at your bottom lip, you clenched fingers in the fabric at your sides as you slipped back out and down the street the way you’d come, not even glancing back to the scene of the crime. You didn’t want to see it. A little inconvenience to retrace your steps a few blocks and take a different route seemed like a small price to pay for a moment of blissful ignorance.

You’d barely gone half a block when gunshots rang out through the air, quickly followed by the hysterical whinnying of terrified carriage horses, and the thundering racket as traffic surged one way or another, utter chaos sprouting from the direction you’d planned on detouring.

 _Again?_ More of this? You couldn’t deny the surge of sheer disappointment. What a way to spend your day off, watching your city be terrorised by gang violence.

Well, what else was there to do but turn a blind eye, pivot on your heel and head down the nearest back alley in the hopes of cutting through to an area a bit less criminally inclined.

You hadn’t expected to see him again so soon.

“Hello hello.” His smile was at a shockingly low smirk-to-grin ratio, apparently recognising you immediately despite having barely met your eyes before you’d looked away.

“Mr. Frye.” The words were low, demure, delivered with a soft nod as you tried so hard to maintain your appearance of ‘too boring to bother with’ while in the crowded streets. It was somehow easier and more difficult in such surroundings, mostly difficult when trying to move. 

Even as you ducked your head and passed by into the alley, the man fell into step with you easily.

“Enjoying the city this fine afternoon?”

Flicking your gaze to his face, you immediately noted his cheeky smirk was back. A fine afternoon, indeed. Was _he_ enjoying this chaos? “Hm.” You quickly glanced back to the ground, a sardonic thread weaving through your otherwise mildly murmured words, almost silent under your breath. “Yes, well, can’t go wrong with a bit of murder and mayhem, can you?”  
  
You hadn’t said it for his ears, but if his bark of laughter was anything to go by, he’d heard you loud and clear regardless. “No you certainly cannot,” he mused, shoving hands into the pockets of his coat as he smiled up to the sky.

Steps faltering, you let Mr. Frye move on without you, dropping away and allowing yourself to stare fully at his back once he wasn’t looking. There was that nagging suspicion, newly taken root, that he was far closer to this issue than you’d initially anticipated. And that just wouldn’t do. You wanted as far away from this danger as possible.

Turning silently, you began to head back toward the street, once more running - or, well, _determinedly strolling_ \- away from your problems, slipping on the camouflage with which you’d become so adept.

It was either too late, or your tricks simply didn’t work so well on horses or the humans driving them, because you were very nearly trampled into the cobbles by an oncoming carriage, driven by a woman in Rook greens. The shout of surprise was startling, as was the heavy hand grasping your shoulder and hauling you out of the street, but you swallowed the squeak of shock that tried to escape your throat, eyes going wide instead, heart suddenly far too loud in your ears as the vehicle passed inches from your face, the driver letting out a stream of curses.

“ _Oi!_ An apology!”

It took you a second to regain your faculties, but you very quickly pulled away from the man’s grip, taking a few shaky steps back and away even as you heard the carriage slowing. It was only a few feet up the road when the driver called back toward you: “Apologies, Mr. Frye. Miss.”

Blinking back to your senses, you watched this _Jacob Frye_ with a hastily guarded gaze. They knew him. They respected him. And that could mean nothing good. Your words were low and verging on a mumble as your eyes hit the pavement again. “Thank you, sir. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” You were several feet down the road before you looked up once more.

You’d known something was off. Usually, the method that let you melt away, it had a _feeling_. Like floating in lukewarm water -- not particularly _pleasant_ , but comforting nonetheless. And it was conspicuously absent.

Three Blighters stood at the corner you approached, and you were far too aware that they could see you. Not only could they see you; they were actively noticing. It was an experience you’d tried to avoid, and for it to be happening _now_ of all times, piling misfortune upon misfortune, had you quite cross. You stumbled over your own feet, slowing your pace, and watched cautiously as the woman on point straightened, something sparking in her eyes that made you incredibly uneasy.

The Blighter hardly taken one step closer before all three of them stiffened, posture adjusting to something more defensive, eyes all moving at once to stare past you.

“Please, Miss. Allow me to escort you home.”

You didn’t look away from the three Blighters, even as you felt him coming up behind you. Oh this was bad. Very very bad. Respected by Rooks, feared by Blighters -- and now he’d somehow marked you out as well? You craved the safety of anonymity again. But it didn’t seem to be in the cards.

“Mr. Frye…” The hair on the back of your neck stood on end as you risked turning your back to the gang members so you might gracefully decline the man’s offer. He wasn’t looking at you, staring instead with a hard challenge in his gaze at the red-clad toughs, lips a small grim smile. Christ, he was going to get himself killed with an attitude like that.

After a moment of hesitation, you tried to stifle your exasperated sigh. “Fine.”

He’d already taken an imposing step toward the Blighters when you grabbed at his sleeve, tightening your grip on his forearm into something resembling an appropriate escorting position, planting your feet as you might to hold back a particularly snappish dog. Heat rose to your cheeks at the familiarity of the action, and the motion itself seemed enough to snap Mr. Frye from his predatory glare, instead glancing to you with surprise. “I’m quite fond of this dress; I’d hate to see it bloodied,” you explained drily, shooting him a sharp look.

Apparently your presence on his arm curtailed any more violent impulses, as he settled for a sharp-toothed warning smirk at the gang who silently drifted out of your path so the two of you might pass.

You didn’t breathe until the trio was a full block behind you, and when you did you quickly dropped his arm. “You’re a madman, Mr. Frye.” It was hard to cover the irritation in your tone.

He was grinning. “Call me Jacob.”

You stopped short, just barely stopping yourself putting your hands on your hips like you used to when dealing with younger children. “I most certainly will not.”

His lips pursed, and you were about 80% sure he was trying not to laugh at you, his eyes bright and jaw twitching.

You glared right back, heart rate still uncomfortably high, still thoroughly shaken from the morning’s events. “I can’t _believe_ you’d drag me into something like this,” you grumbled, stabbing a finger into his chest accusingly. “You don’t even know me!”

There was no way for him to hide the smirk hooking up the corner of his mouth as he glanced down at you (and he wasn’t even that much taller, damn it, how could he manage an expression like _that_ ), raising an amused brow. “Careful, love, don’t want to attract any unwanted attention.”

At his teasing warning your posture adjusted automatically, pulling away, adopting that bland and proper facade you were all too used to, though your suspicious glare didn’t lessen a bit. “You seem to do more than enough of that for the both of us.”

He surveyed the area calmly, and you thought you sensed a flash in his gaze, like he was looking with more than just his eyes, before they rested on you again, clear. His cocky attitude had mellowed a bit, tempered with the smallest dash of humility. “And I do apologise for that,” he inclined his head graciously.

Good.

“...But as it seems the damage is done, it’s only proper I ensure your safe return home. Please.”

You chewed your lip, eyes still narrowed at the man even as traffic began to flow as usual once more, the two of you melting into the bustle of the streets again. That feeling of liquid anonymity was comforting, though you felt the smallest seam in it -- the smallest exception being made for the man who stood before you. Still, you were lost to the crowd. Perhaps that was why you relented. “No fighting,” you insisted, strictly. “No brawls, no scrapes, and dear god no carriage chases.”

“You think so little of me…” He shook his head with a chuckle. “Fine;” he smirked, “No fun.” The laugh was louder at your affronted expression. “I kid, I kid-- just a walk, no trouble.”

There was a long silence as you resumed your stroll back to your employer’s residence, your brow furrowed at the ground. You hadn’t initially planned to return so early, but at this point…

“...Breathe, love, you’re alright.” Mr. Frye’s words were a murmur - chosen to be comforting, you assumed - and you suspected he felt some guilt for his teasing.

Heat rushed up your neck, colouring your cheeks, though it was mostly discomfort that he’d assume you’d need such a thing. Was it that obvious, how rattled you were? “It’s never been this bad before. Not in my experience. Not here,” you admitted quietly, voice hard with firmly controlled anxiety. “If it was Southwark or Whitechapel, the waterfront - hell, even Lambeth I might understand…” But this was the City proper, this was wide boulevards and middle-class homes, and more proper stores than factories. You had come here thinking it would be safer.

“Always darkest before day dawns and all that.”

How could he be so flippant? You hummed your ambivalence, and your words came out a dry murmur, more to yourself than to him. “One must wonder who on earth said that and how they could _possibly_ believe it true.”

There was a soft huff of laughter before the two of you settled into a brief - and surprisingly amiable - silence. His voice was a curious half-accusation when he spoke again. “You’re not from Southwark.”

You shot him a sidelong glance, willing to set aside your worries for his offered distraction. “I’m not?” Mild innocence coloured your tone, even as you felt a touch of reluctant amusement at the statement. He was right, of course. But you certainly weren’t born on _these_ streets. You’d sooner claim Southwark your home than the City borough.

“You don’t _sound_ like you’re from Southwark,” he amended.

 _Ma would be so proud_. A fleeting glance up and you looked away soon after catching his eyes. Had anyone ever watched you with such unabashed interest before? You didn’t think you’d ever let them. It was… not as bad as you’d expected. “Neither do you,” you pointed out, loftily.

“‘Cos I’m not.” He was smirking - though he always was, wasn’t he? Always entertained by something or other. “Crawley.”

You raised doubtful brows. He may not have the same practiced diction you’d cultivated, but there was a bit of it in his speech. Then again you hadn’t met many people from outside of London.

“...And my father imposed elocution on us.” There was a sheepish tilt to his grin, speech almost mockingly affected as he rolled his eyes.

“Us?” Your interest was polite but genuine as you glanced up again, watching him in profile from under lowered lashes. In a moment you wondered what this Mr. Frye had been like as a boy. Not an older member of the family, surely. A younger brother or cousin. He reminded you too much of those younger children -- hungry mouths and grabby hands, too impatient and too reckless, the ones you’d been stuck keeping in line.

“My sister and me.” He’d been watching the walk before them, but now he turned to catch your eyes again and you once more quickly looked away. “You’d like her.”

You hadn’t expected the warmth in his tone. If you hadn’t seen him pummel twenty men you would’ve scoffed at how quick he was to trust, how dangerous it was to be so familiar, so open with strangers. But he could clearly take care of himself. You wondered if this was how Emma felt walking with William -- shielded in a bubble of bizarre safety. For once you’d stopped scanning for gang colours, and you hadn’t even realised it. _Stupid._ _You_ shouldn’t trust so easily.

...Still. It was hard to remind yourself to be on edge, your tone coming out more playfully teasing than you’d intended. “And how would you know what I’d like, Mr. Frye?” Were you _flirting_? You very well might be, now that you thought on it. Damn it. Emma would be absolutely delighted.

He chuckled. “Fine: _she’d_ like _you_. That bit you do -- your little disappearing act.”

Suspicious eyes darted to the man at your side, his hands suddenly thrust deep in his pockets as he turned an unassuming gaze to the sky in a show of innocence. “Hm.” You pursed your lips, finding it far easier to watch him, to study a face built for impudence, when he wasn’t watching you right back. “It hasn’t seemed to be working as of late,” you deadpanned.

A grin flashed before he tamed it to something more appropriately reserved. “If you’re referring to me, I am honoured. And I can assure you: I’m an outlier.”

 _Mmhm. Right._ “I’m sure you like to think of yourself as one.” You couldn’t help the smirk that teased at the corners of your mouth, your words overly sweet with the smallest bite of condescension.

“First the accent and now I can’t quite pinpoint the _attitude_ either.” It was a playful accusation, only making your smirk more prominent.

You could practically feel your tongue sharpening, and it was delightful. “Don’t all RP accents come with instilled superiority?” Your eyes flicked over the man at your side, teasing, intrigued by this reading he was attempting.

“Yes, but born int-” He stopped himself, fingers snapping at the air in sudden epiphany. “Nevermind, I’ve got it.”

“Oh you have, have you?” It was more smile than smirk now, brows lifted in playful challenge.

“Working in a house like that, it’s most definitely a requirement to have a bit of _holier-than-thou_ ,” he jibed, and you shot him an admonishing look. “The question is only which came first: the job or the accent.”

Teeth nipped at your lip as you tried not to smile. A touch of wicked glee coloured your lofty response. “First impressions are important, Mr. Frye, but they can be deceiving. For instance: my first impression of _you_ included the word _gentleman_.”

A very _un_ gentlemanly snort passed his throat, but he otherwise ignored the barb. “So: born in Southwark, picked up the RP for a job?”

“If you like.” You had to feel a bit smug: you hid your roots well. “What about you?” you redirected, “What brought you here from Crawley?”

“A--” He cocked his head, as though amused by how he might answer the question, finally settling on: “A job.”

Oh how vague. You shot him the incredulous look such a response deserved. He just grinned.

“ _Well…_ ” The word was low and drawn out, somehow both relenting and cajoling at the same time; half sheepish and all too charming. “Doesn’t every young man deserve a chance to seek his fortune?”

“A fortune gained by stealing from bankers’ wives?” You proposed, scepticism colouring your otherwise innocent tone.

His lips made a half-considering pout, as he shrugged. “A fortune gained alongside the glory of prizefighting?” he suggested.

“And the Blighters chasing after your carriage, that’s part of... the prize fights?”

“Ah.” Now he really did look sheepish. At least a bit. “Well, no,” he admitted. “But I can assure you that cargo found a much nicer home.”

Your face snapped to fix narrowed eyes on your companion. “Cargo?” When you’d seen him he’d been on a coach, no cargo in sight.

The crooked smile was back. Like a child caught lying. “...When was this?”

“This happens regularly for you?” Right. Of course. Mr. Frye had that charming roguish air - you already knew of his sticky fingers -  of _course_ he was a full-time thief. How could you have ever let yourself forget it.

“A man’s got to keep food on the table, Miss.”

You shook your head, bemused. “Thievin’ and boxin’ does that for you, then?”

“Ha!” He jabbed a finger towards you in sudden triumph, pulling his gesture back just before he would actually touch you, hand curling into a fist as though suddenly remembering to hold back any violence near your person. “That, there it is.”

“What?” You had to admit it _was_ a bit entertaining, seeing this quick turn of joy.

“ _‘What’_ \--” He scoffed. “There’s the streets in you.” Again he jabbed, but kept his hands close to himself, a polite distance away even when he obviously wished to point out his success in the most blatant manner possible.

There was no hiding the smirk that quickly morphed into a grin as you shook your head, glancing to your feet, trying to reprimand yourself. After a moment, catching the smug smirk of your companion in the corner of your vision, you trained your face to something a bit more subdued. Still, a wry smile curled your lips. “You’re a bad influence, Mr. Frye.”

His grin was sharp and wolfish and incredibly self-satisfied: “Oh, very.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kinda weird cause when writing I keep switching between second and third person to write. At this point it's mostly being written in third person and then edited into second, cause I had an idea for a later scene, but it names the protagonist within dialogue so... hm. I guess I'll keep posting the second-person version here? The third-person version is still over on FFnet. I feel too indecisive. I kinda want to just post it in second person AND in third person, but that seems like breaking the rules. Idk. These author notes are too often just me babbling, sorry 'bout that. 
> 
> I'd appreciate some feedback, if you'd take the time. For FaFiCoWriMo? Thanks!
> 
> (Another side note: looking to do more rp/co-op writing, if anyone's interested. Hit me up in the comments or on Tumblr - same username)


	3. mad and maddening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops sorry, couldn't avoid it anymore; OC gets a name and I apologize for that, I assume some won't be a fan of the choice. But damn I loved writing this chapter. Got me out of a real emotional slump to be honest. I know it doesn't directly follow the last chapter (there are a few days in between), but I wanted to write it so I did and then I wanted to share it so... I did.

He was waiting for you as you entered your mistress’s room. Grinning. “Lizzie.”

You froze for just a moment before quickly stepping in and closing the door behind you, frowning. You tried to keep your voice even, if edged with wariness, a plethora of thoughts suddenly buzzing in your head. “...Mr. Frye.” Why was he here? How did he know your name? What was he-- _oh god_ \-- Your heart leapt to your throat with a rush of anxiety, eyes widening before you glared. “You could’ve been _caught_ ,” you hissed, stepping forward, glancing around the room as if you might spot something amiss. “I could’ve been _anyone_!”

How dare he laugh like that. “No you couldn’t have.”

Nothing out of place, save for the open window -- no drawers disturbed or trunks left open. It didn’t mean he hadn’t stolen something. Maybe something small? You took another step toward him, scanning his person quickly, checking for suspicious glints of jewelry or trinkets spilling from his pockets-- damn it, why did that stupid top hat suit him so well? “ _Yes_ I could,” you insisted, crossly. Christ, why were you worried for _him_ \-- your job was on the line, too, if things went missing, and that meant the roof over your head and the food in your belly.

His step forward was quick and quieter than you would’ve expected from a man of his build. The fingers - skin and the leather edges of his glove - brushing your chin made you jump then freeze as he lifted your face, watching you with amusement. “No.” His voice was a low murmur and he was _far_ closer than he should be, his eyes too intensely interested. “You really couldn’t.”

You’d stopped breathing. As soon as you realised that fact you blinked, swallowing hard, and jerked your face from his hold, eyes shooting to the floor. You felt the too-warm flush on your cheeks soothed by that cooling sense of blankness that came with what he’d called your _disappearing act_. It was a relief to be nothing for a moment. To take a breath without his eyes on you. It let you snap back to your senses.

“ _Lizzie_ ,” he whined, dropping his hand and rolling his head back in exasperation, making no attempt to stay quiet. “You’re making my head hurt, love, please come-”

“If you would keep your voice _down_ , Mr. Frye.” Your voice was a tense whisper, watching him warily, too distracted to keep your meek facade. Half of you was hyper aware of the last place you’d seen Mrs. Hanover the housekeeper (speaking with the cook, discussing their cold storage; three floors below), and half was coming up blank trying to theorise on why the thief was here.

His head was still tipped back, but you saw the smile twist his lips as he lazily rolled it forward again, fixing you with a look that was too sharp for your taste. There was a fire in it, but not the sort you may have expected based on his earlier closeness. No, this was a violent chaos, burning to be free. “Make me.”

Your brow furrowed in confusion. There was a beat of silence.

“ _How?_ ” You made no attempt to hide the utter bafflement in your voice.

The man smirked. Like you should know what _that_ meant?

“You are a prizefighting champion, sir,” you reminded him, shortly. Wasn’t this obvious? “I am a maid. I cannot _make_ you do anything, merely ask.” You shook your head, unsure what exactly he expected of you. “And that is what I am doing.”

Eyes narrowed in playful suspicion as he took a swaggering step toward you, and you almost immediately took a step back. “A maid.” It wasn’t a question, but the phrase was still steeped in scepticism.

What on earth was he getting at? “...Yes?” Another step forward, another step back. Your skin had broken out in gooseflesh: something was not right. Why was he coming at you like this?

“Your cover is good, I’ll give you that.”

“Cover?” The question was a perplexed murmur, and he promptly ignored it.

“Who do you _really_ work for, sweetheart?” He spoke smoothly, continuing to move forward, something in his tone coaxing you for an answer you weren’t sure how to give.

Your face flushed, anger battling with caution, all shaded with an echoing frustration at how senseless his words were. And calling you _sweetheart_ like that-- “You are too informal, Mr. Frye!” you snapped, struggling to keep your voice low as you demanded, “And I would have you speak plainly, _if you will_.”

“Plain-?” Seeming to tire of bickering, he sighed and pulled back, rolling his eyes. “Fine.” There was a quiet _click-shing_ as he presented you a forearm, a thin blade sliding from the gauntlet he wore: “Let’s have at it, then.”

The words had hardly left his lips before he swung, a heavy fist going straight for your head.

You were no fighter.

You barely managed to stumble back, falling to the floor with wide eyes, swallowing your shocked cry. Cringing away, hands lifted defensively, you couldn’t even calm yourself enough for your usual tricks, eyes scrunched up and turned to the floor as you braced for a blow, grimacing.

No blow came.

Your heart was racing like a frightened rabbit, a fluttering pitter-patter shallow in your chest, legs tangled before you, a mess of fabric and trembling limbs. _Breathe_. You were shaking. Christ, you couldn’t _stop_ shaking. _Get a hold of yourself, woman._ Your jaw ached, fused shut by a stubborn refusal to shout, tongue cleaved to the roof of your mouth. It felt like forever, but must’ve only been a few seconds before you could focus enough to slip on an attempt at your defensive modesty.

The choked noise from his throat - too loud in the suddenly silent room - broke your concentration almost immediately, eyes snapping to him, as tense as you’d ever been in your life.

He at least had the decency to look almost as shocked as you. The combat stance was gone, though the blade still protruded from the device on his arm.

You watched the pink rising under his skin.

“Ah.” He cleared his throat hard, shifting nervously on his feet. “Well.” The shock was briefly replaced by dumbfounded confusion, cocking his head at you, lips parting as though he might ask a question before his mouth snapped shut again. “...Right.” He blinked several times, looking away, adjusting back to a more casual position, blade sliding away once more, brow furrowed as he seemed to reconcile this new information.

You simply watched, dumbfounded.

He lifted a finger, as though to make an interjection to a conversation that was definitely not happening. “So-” Down it went again, as he contemplated his words. Finally, he looked at you again. “So you’re not a member of the Order?” He sounded practically hopeful, as though you might correct him.

You weren’t sure when your hands had lowered, but now you just stared at the man before you, stunned. “...Order?” you asked weakly.

He fidgeted, ears going red even as he kept his mostly confident posture. “And not part of the Brotherhood?” There was that same hope again. It was like he expected you to have some kind of sudden realisation.

What on _earth_ … You wracked your brain for his meaning. “Is that… a union thing?”

He let out a weak huff of amusement, but you couldn’t bring yourself to join - far too aware of a hidden blade that could spring out at half a second’s notice. As he noticed your silence, he also fell quiet. Gradually his face grew more serious, regret clear in the firm line of his lips. He took a few steps toward you and you winced as he lowered a hand. Hazel eyes skirted away from yours -- _good, he should be ashamed_ \-- as he lowered himself to one knee. The hand he offered was unarmed.

“I believe I owe you an apology.”

The air hung heavy in the silence as you stared at him in disbelief, head spinning. Finally, you came at least somewhat to your senses. Your gaping mouth snapped shut and you slapped his offered hand away, suddenly feeling a fury. A fury that threatened your better sense to not push the buttons of a man with a hidden blade. “You’re _damn_ right you do!” You hated how shrill your voice was as you struggled to your feet without his help, tinny with a hysteria that, while understandable, was still humiliating. “You could’ve _killed_ me!”

His lips twisted as his eyes darted away again, his tone not nearly as apologetic as he’d claimed. “To be fair, I expected you to fight back.”

“With _what?!_ ”

He’d darted his eyes back to you, scanning over your figure like he was trying to find an answer himself, lips parted as though he might make some undoubtedly foolish attempt to argue his case, but then you both heard it.

The housekeeper was calling your name. “Is that you? Are you alright, dear?”

Your heart was once more painfully lodged in your throat, a series of options flicking through your head, calculating just how likely Mrs. Hanover was to seek you out regardless of your answer. You could call out, assure the woman of your well-being, but undoubtedly she would still come find you. And would that be so bad? Perhaps that was the best way to ensure Mr. Frye’s departure. After all, it seemed (at least at this point) that he was reluctant to harm you. And if he wanted to mince words with the housekeeper, he was welcome to it as long as you were in the clear. _Would_ you be in the clear? Did you even have the time to think on it?

You reached for the doorknob, prepared to warn of the intruder, to bring the attention you so often avoided, but apparently Mr. Frye had made his decision just a bit quicker. A hand clamped down over your mouth, reining your whole body back to collide with his, at the same moment that an arm wrapped around your torso, pinning your arms to your sides even as you reflexively tried to reach up to pry his fingers away from your lips.

So you couldn’t reach the hand over your mouth, fine. You hesitated, too aware that you could still reach his other arm, could still try to wrestle yourself free. But you weren’t a fighter, you knew you weren’t a fighter, and he was-- _god_ , he was; you could _feel_ it even clearer than you’d seen with your own eyes, could feel the sheer power of his body at your back. Every inch of you was on high alert, even as you tried to think rationally, to set aside that first chaotic instinct of fear. Hadn’t he just been apologising? Shouldn’t that mean you weren’t in danger? But then why--

“I don’t want to hurt you, I just want to talk.” His voice was a low murmur and--

\--and his breath was hot against your ear, each syllable vibrating on your skin.

...It was… peculiar.

You did not appreciate the sudden drip of uncertainty gradually flooding your body.

There were footsteps from beyond the closed door, someone already halfway up the stairs; you’d memorised that creaky step within your first week of service.

“Key?”

What? An expression of confusion furrowed your brow, trying to interpret his-- _oh_. There was one to these rooms, yes, but you didn’t know where the mistress kept it. They weren’t kept locked. You shook your head. The movement brushed your cheek against his nose, his lips making the briefest contact with your jaw. Christ, you hadn’t been this close to a man in… well, since Papa died. And that had been a _very_ different type of embrace from… whatever this was. When had your mouth gone so dry? Damn it, _focus_.

The brief moment of hesitation in his movements made you wary, but then he seemed to have made a decision.

It happened in a flash. Your squeak of indignant alarm and pain was stifled by his hand as he yanked an arm behind you (not as hard as he’d manhandled his competitors in the ring, but still, it wasn’t exactly _pleasant_ ) and the next thing you knew you were in your mistress’s closet, thoroughly disoriented.

 _Not even the dressing room? Or the bathroom? You had to pick_ this _?_

Of all the doors, he’d chosen the one leading to the smallest space. And of course he’d joined you. _Of course_. Sod the concept of propriety or scandal, why not cram oneself into extremely close quarters with a woman he’d barely met. “If you’d asked-” fingers pressed against your lips, silencing you far more politely than the first time. He’d let go of your arm as well. _I could’ve told you which room had an exit, you dolt._ But you didn’t protest.

There was the sound of a door opening, but not the one you’d expected. So the housekeeper was checking the linen closet first -- fair, you often changed sheets as part of your duties. But that was just a longer wait. Here. With _him_.

Finally taking a moment to breathe, you were suddenly incredibly aware of your position.

It was too dark to see him at first, thank god, but you could imagine well enough, could feel the wood of the closet door against your back and the tension in his wrist where it nestled into the skirts against your hip, hand tight on the handle to keep the door closed. He was close. Very close. Knowing the size of this closet you suspected he may actually be putting himself in some amount of pain to keep from being even _closer_. A soft grunt of discomfort seemed to confirm your theory, as did his slight shift forward. That would be the hooks at the back, undoubtedly digging into him. Despite your wish to, you didn’t voice the mandatory objections, mindful of the calloused fingertips on your lips. At this point you’d be in just as much trouble as him if the two of you were caught. More, even.

Your eyes were just adjusting to the thin stream of light peeking under the crack in the door (hardly much to see by, but you were getting vague outlines) when you heard a soft clacking. You strained, as if opening your eyes even wider in the dark would somehow allow you to see what-

You caught the tiny light reflected on the metal of the offending hanger in the practically empty closet, half-hidden by what you could reasonably assume was his shoulder, watching it nervously as it swung. He’d hit it, then. You couldn’t exactly blame him, given the small space and his own rather bulky form. You wanted to, though. Especially as he shifted and the clack came again.

Lips pursing, you held back the admonishment, instead reaching past him, stilling the movement with a firm hand. You’d had to lean forward to do it, and now thought you might be regretting that choice, as the movement had slipped his fingers down your lips, pressed your body a bit closer to his, draping your arm against his chest, and you realised too late that letting go now would just send it clattering once more.

He shifted again, and you could sense him looking down at you even if you couldn’t see his eyes. There was a creak as the door to your mistress’s bedroom opened, and you tried not to breathe. Fingers slipped until they cupped your chin, his thumb brushing over your lips like a warning you didn’t need. You had no intention of speaking, of being caught. In fact, it would probably be better if you just…

It was hard to do in such a position, but if you set your mind to it… Gradually you felt your body settle into the proper demeanor - awkward with your hand propped over his shoulder, but achievable - and slipped into that practiced modesty that—

His hand tightened on your chin, face ducking beside yours as a soft, barely breathed, “ _Ss,_ ” slipped through gritted teeth.

Was he shushing you? But you hadn’t made any noise. It was a silent trick, just a… Ah. Right. He’d said it before. He said it _made his head hurt_ , but you didn’t understand how that could be true. But here he was, suddenly far tenser than he’d been a moment ago, crowding into your space with an air of frustrated confusion. _Stop_ He’d wanted to say stop, that must’ve been it. A plea.

You dropped your attempt immediately, half fascinated and half guilty. You’d never seen someone react to your… whatever it was… like that before. As soon as you stopped he let out a short breath, his grip loosening, the tensed muscles of his arms relaxing. “ _Thhh._ ” Again, barely breathed, a silent sound of mostly air that tickled your ear. _Thank you_. Well, at least he was appreciative.

It was your turn to tense - free hand lifting and nervously bumping into the fabric of Mr. Frye’s coat (and to his credit, he held quite still) - as the door barely two feet from your hiding place creaked open. The bathroom. So Mrs. Hanover _was_ checking the full rooms. You grudgingly admitted perhaps the closet had been the best choice after all.

It felt like ages, though you knew it was barely a couple minutes, waiting for the housekeeper to make her search. As you heard the woman entering the dressing room, you had the sudden realisation that _he hadn’t moved away_. He’d relaxed, yes, but his face was still close beside yours, his breath still--

\--still licking down your neck. A quick stream of curses slipped through your mind as you stiffened to keep from shivering. There was the smallest huff of air - of _laughter_ \- and you quickly released the hold you’d reflexively taken on his waistcoat. When had your hand slipped past his jacket? Oh god. And of course now he could probably feel the heat from your face even if he couldn’t see you glowing red. You could hear the pounding of blood in your ears you were blushing so hard. You felt the itch in your throat, that nervous need to cough, to shed the tension, to do _something_ , but you had to stay silent. Instead you swallowed hard and pursed your lips, nibbling at one for a moment.

That had been a mistake. That hadn’t helped at _all_ \-- on the contrary, your lips were suddenly _more_ sensitive to his touch. Bad idea. And _of course_ his thumb still brushed your mouth, _of course_ it did, and you could swear he was grinning, you could swear it! But you need only endure this closeness just a moment more. One more moment.

This was ridiculous. You should be outraged at the impertinence. Maybe you _would’ve_ been, if you truly were who you pretended to be. If you hadn’t grown up seeing lads like him. Worse than him, really -- less polite, less respectful. Compared to what you’d witnessed in the east end, from flirtations to harassments, Mr. Frye was a catch. Even if he was a thief. At least he was a good one.

But damn it, you were better than that now. You were moving up in the world, had been ever since you and your Ma had left Whitechapel. _Respectable_. And respectable young women didn’t cosy up with thieves in dark closets.

And how could you have forgotten how he had _very near killed you_ just minutes ago?!

Perhaps you couldn’t let go of the hanger just yet, but you withdrew your other hand from his chest, balling it into a fist at your side as you reminded yourself of your righteous indignation.

It was irritatingly hard to hold on to.

He was too easy to make exceptions for, and you had to stop doing so.

The sound of his throat clearing, subtle as it was, was too loud so close to your ear. Blinking your thoughts back to the present, you realised with a start that the housekeeper had moved on. His thumb had dropped from your lips, though his fingers still brushed your chin.

“I think we’re in the clear.” Still, his voice was a barely-breathed whisper.

“Right.” _No, not right, think before you speak._ Realising your mistake you hurriedly - awkwardly - crossed your arm between the two of you to stop his hand on the door handle as he shifted to open it. “Wait! Did she leave the door to the bedroom open?” If she did, you’d still need to tiptoe about until she was back down a floor, until you could close it again.

There was a pause, but when he whispered again it sounded at least partially amused. “How would I know?”

You tried to ignore the way his hand brushed your cheek, tracing your jaw too delicately for such calloused digits, like his fingers couldn’t keep still. _Too familiar_ , he was far too familiar. “Well did you _hear_ it?”

Again, a pause. His voice and his wandering fingers, lighting against your cheekbone. You thought he might be censoring himself, but you weren’t sure. Perhaps he was just trying to remember. “...Yes.” This time it was louder than a whisper, more confident, though still low, and - Christ, you hadn’t realised you’d be able to _feel_ the timbre of his voice, that was… that was different.

Surely there was something you should say in response. Some kind of confirmation. Damn it all, he was distracting. As his touch left your face you thought you’d seen the last of it, but he’d only drawn away to reach back, taking a firm hold of your wrist, reminding you to let go of the silly hanger. And-- Eyes narrowed in suspicion, even in the dark. He was doing that on purpose, wasn’t he? Guiding your hand down his chest like that. Your fingers tensed, but he made no move further down his torso. Good. You didn’t know what to expect from the cheeky bastard.

The two of you were still too close. You should say something. Scold him. You should really pull your hand away.

You should.

...So why weren’t you?

Your mind went blank for a moment as he leaned closer, practically pressing you against the door, both arms now trapped in the rapidly diminishing space between your bodies. At least his lips weren’t quite so close to your ear this time, his smirk audible and the words a half-singsong warning spoken above your head: “Careful, now.”

Careful-?

The door opened and you stumbled back, still flustered, barely able to steady yourself before you might fall. You bit your tongue to keep the curse from your lips, glaring at the man who now strolled leisurely from your hiding spot. He was giving you a look - amused, but still with that touch of disbelief he’d had before. “Huh. You really _aren’t_ trained, are you?”

“Trained.” The word was flat as you struggled to push away those niggling thoughts of _too close_ in favour of the righteous indignation you really should be focused on.

Mr. Frye glanced away, shrugging and flapping his hand noncommittally. “You know.”

Alright. Enough was enough. You closed your eyes, hands clasping before you as you tried to collect yourself, to set aside the mortification of your close-quarters hideaway and instead hold this man accountable. You let out a soft sigh, trying to be patient, staring at his feet. “ _No_ , Mr. Frye, I do not know. That is precisely the issue. But if it has anything to do with your unexpected assault earlier, I believe I am owed an explanation.” You gave a short nod, satisfied that you’d regained your composure.

He’d turned away a bit, patting at his coat, and when you glanced up again— It was so hard to not immediately try to hide, seeing the massive curved knife he’d drawn. Too hard. Instinct kicked in, and you-

“Lizzie, stop.” It was only slightly more request than command, but there was enough softness in it - and he hadn’t raised the blade. So you relented, raising your chin again.

“I would rather you not call me that, sir.” Your jaw was tight, unappreciative of his informality.

“Why not?” How could he sound surprised at that? You’d met him, what, three times? Four? You barely knew his name. And yet he seemed so innocently taken aback that you didn’t want him to speak so casually with you? “It’s what your friend called you.” The knife hung limp in his grip, forgotten for the time being.

Your friend… “Who exactly…” You already had your suspicions before he answered.

“The blonde you were at the match with. Fulton, Fuller, something like that.”

 _Emma_ Fuller. Soon to be Shearer. That… You sighed, resignedly. That made sense, then. Emma was the only one who called you that anymore - the only one you _let_ call you that — the only one you didn’t _actively avoid_ , anyway. You pursed your lips, glaring out the corner of your eye as you remembered the sneering way the nickname had slipped from grimy children’s lips. You’d put a stop to it when you could, in favour of something a bit more refined. Still, Emma was notoriously bad at listening to you.

“So it’s true, then?” He shook his head, his words a murmur of incredulous amusement. “Whitechapel born and bred.”

You tucked nervous fingers into your pockets, worrying the loose threads hidden within, but kept your voice steady, meeting his curious gaze head-on. “Mr. Frye, my history is mine alone and none of your business.”

He shrugged, nodding his assent, glancing away. “Fair enough.”

You actually felt relieved for a moment. Before he spoke again.

“I just… I dunno. From there to here…” His head was lowered, eyes fixing on yours from beneath the brim of his hat, with a tone that covered mild suspicion with a mask of casual curiosity. “Seemed like a cover. ...Or a job.” How did he manage to sound so genial with that hard edge underneath it all?

“It _is_ a job,” you insisted, scowling, arms quickly crossing over your chest defensively. “It’s good work and I was lucky to get it.” Years working in the shops, months of carefully chosen words and actions, curating your impression for the wealthier ladies of the city; it was a bit insulting to call it luck, actually.

“No it—” He shook his head, shedding that air of intimidation easily. “With your, erm,” his smirk at the ground was wry as he searched for the word. “...Talents. It just seemed…” He trailed off, but this time his bemusement seemed genuine. “...How do you do it, anyway?”

You didn’t need to ask what he meant. “I…” You hesitated. “I don’t know.” Shrugging halfheartedly, you let yourself watch him with sharp eyes as long as he wasn’t looking at you. Your voice was softer than you wanted, too much of your own uncertainty - your own puzzlement at how honest you were being - sneaking through. “I just do.” You hadn’t even considered it something unusual until somewhat recently. “...I’ve never had someone notice before,” you admitted quietly.

There was a pause, a small contemplative frown twisting his lips. He watched his fingers playing along the intricate engraving on the knife, but it looked more like fidgeting than a threat. When he spoke it was a distracted murmur, and you had to wonder what was on his mind. “Evie does something like it.”

Evie? Was that a friend of his? _Oh god_ \-- was that his _wife_? If so, should you be relieved? You blanched, head buzzing, confused not just by his words but by the bitter taste they brought to your mouth. _Stop it. Get a hold of yourself. Change the subject._ The words tumbling from your lips weren’t exactly a subtle change of tack. “What’s the knife for?”

“Hm?” He glanced up, then back, as though suddenly realising what his attentions to the blade might look like. “Not for you, love, god no,” he assured you easily, tossing the blade casually into the air, as if to prove its harmlessness. You jumped, a quick shock lighting through you, barely having time to jar you before he’d caught the handle again, giving it an impressive-looking twirl. There was a flash of that cheeky grin again. “Nah, this lady’s for Blighters, mostly. And Templars.” Another flamboyant twist and flick, light dancing along the metal with the fluid movements as he took a couple steps toward you, voice lowering in a teasing murmur. “And rogues and thieves…”

He’d practically set you up. One of your brows lifted incredulously, mouth already opening, about to point out that he himself seemed to be the latter, when his earlier words were fully processed. “...Blighters?”

A smirk curled his lip as he gave a half-nod.

Your face went blank. “So…” He didn’t wear their colours, but… “You work for the Rooks, then?”

His eyebrows shot up and you watched a look of pure delight dawn on his face. His lips were tight and you knew he was trying not to grin. Trying and failing miserably. “Work-” There was a small huff of laughter as he dropped his gaze to the floor, teeth flashing as he shook his head. “I don’t work for the Rooks, love.”

Oh thank go--

“I _am_ the Rooks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This conversation isn't over. The next chapter will have more of it. But I couldn't pass up a chance to end with that. 
> 
> Please please please share reactions -- even a couple words or an emoji -- I am way too pleased with this chapter and need either validation or correction XD
> 
> Plus: Happy Fanfic Comment Writing Month? Apparently that's a thing? I know I've been leaving comments on the fics I've been reading (oh god, I am so sorry to that One Author who I have just spammed with a comment every chapter just livetweeting my reactions and picking out favorite lines).


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